Morality for Beautiful Slytherins
by Cedar
Summary: After a court battle, the house at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, is awarded to Narcissa Malfoy. Not needing the house, she signs it over to Draco, who decides to use it to strike a bargain with Harry Potter. Every bargain, however, has hidden consequences.
1. I

Disclaimer: All the characters and places in this work belong to J.K. Rowling, WB, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, etc.

Author's notes: Many thanks to beta readers praetorianguard, Carfiniel, and Mattador, and to friends Molly Moon, Gryph, MHC, and heathersy

I.

He won.

Case: _In re the Estate of Black_. Verdict: The property at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, awarded to Narcissa Malfoy, Sirius Black's next of kin. So technically it wasn't his win. It was his mother's. Who cared? The house was as good as his. Though they refrained from stating anything publicly, Lucius and Narcissa agreed that should they win the case, the house would go to Draco. It meant too much to Narcissa to sell to some stranger, but they saw no reason to move out of the house they already owned, their home for over twenty years. The logical choice, they determined, was to sign the house over to Draco. He could spend his life there, raise a family, and keep the house-elf lineage tied to the Black line. He had a career and a flat of his own, of course, but none of his property had the ties to his family history the way the house on Grimmauld Place did.

The Malfoys smiled and shook their barristers' hands when the verdict was announced. Draco was acutely, wonderfully aware of Harry Potter's slumped posture at the next table, of the expression of shock on Hermione Granger's face. He made sure to look over at the two of them still seated in their wooden chairs and smile slowly. For once, it was his turn to be on the winning side. Granger's fight for Potter's ownership of the house was admirable, and Draco had to give her some credit for creativity, but now the dispute was over and none of it mattered. With no will, nothing in writing, Potter didn't stand a chance at getting the house.

Granger's tactic was to go for the judges' hearts, which even Draco saw was not the right thing to do. No one disputed that Potter was Black's family by choice, but this wasn't a matter of who pulled harder on the heartstrings. Money and bloodlines and legal documents, or in this case lack thereof, counted. Sometimes Draco wondered why Potter even bothered. He couldn't believe that Potter didn't see this coming; the courtroom was the one place where Potter's fame and fortune couldn't get him what he wanted.

Outside the courthouse reporters crowded together on the concrete steps, and it annoyed Draco to see that more than half of them wanted only to talk to Harry Potter, The Man Who Defeated Voldemort. Draco's stomach turned every time he heard that nickname. He knew the real story. He knew about the prophecy made before Potter's birth, that Potter never had a choice in any matter that involved Lord Voldemort. Not that Draco had any sympathy for Potter's fame. Prophecy or not, choice or not, Potter granted every interview requested of him once word got out that Lord Voldemort was gone for good. The fear of speaking and printing the name disappeared from the wizarding world with the final flash of light from Potter's wand, and as Draco expected, Potter didn't let anyone forget that. A person couldn't walk two feet down Diagon Alley without hearing the name Harry Potter, or seeing his face on the cover of every magazine, or catching whispers of "So brave, and so young," or "Saved the world, heavens knows where we'd be without him." Potter, above all things, was a whore for the spotlight, same as he'd been since his first day at Hogwarts.

Draco unwillingly stood silent beside his father, shivering in the March air while Narcissa spoke with the press. He wanted to run to where the reporters hounded Potter and drag them to his side, to the real story, the one that involved the wild notions of law and justice. He clenched his fists at his sides and pressed his lips together while flashbulbs blinded him. When the crowd began to thin and the purple spots faded from his vision, Draco turned his head to the side, to where Potter was standing against the wall in a cluster of reporters.

There was something that struck Draco about the way Potter stood, and Draco had to study him for a moment to figure out what unnerved him. Potter didn't make much eye contact with the reporters and kept looking to Granger as though she had the route of escape. He slouched and he looked haggard, like he'd been operating on nothing but adrenaline. Even though he couldn't hear him over the din of reporters firing questions, Draco could tell that Potter's shame and sadness were real. The house was more to him than just a building. In the courtroom, he fought for his sentiments, however ridiculous and misguided they were.

Seeing Potter like that, defeated and almost vulnerable, disturbed Draco. Harry Potter had a very definite role in Draco's mind. All the memories he had of Potter involved some degree of inflated ego and people giving him all kinds of credit he didn't deserve. Potter always got the best of everything he wanted and the best of everything he never asked for. The general wizarding public, in Draco's opinion, was much too forgiving of Potter's flaws. Undeniable talent on the Quidditch pitch coupled with those "sparkling green eyes," as _Witch Weekly_ put it, let Potter get away with murder. Draco, however, knew that he saw Potter for what he truly was.

A sharp tap on his shoulder took Draco's focus off Potter.

"We're leaving, Draco," said his father. "Your mother and I are going home, and you may join us for dinner if you'd like."

Nodding, Draco maintained his silence and followed his father down the steps. He restrained himself from looking back over his shoulder at Potter and the frenzied crowd of reporters who all wanted to be the first to print their lack of exclusive in-depth interview with Harry Potter, The Man Who Lost His Court Battle. Draco could see the spread in the _Daily Prophet_ already, with columns of opposing viewpoints and letters to the editor regarding who the winner of the court case was, or should be. He resolved to get up early the next day to read the papers before work, skipping all the letters and editorials in Potter's favor, of course, and then maybe in the evening he'd go to his new house. He'd only seen it once but remembered it being enormous. Now that his mother was declared the rightful owner of the house, Draco knew she'd have a team of house-elves working around the clock until she deemed it fit for Draco to live in.

Over dinner at his parents' house, Draco offered opinions he'd kept to himself for the duration of the trial on the advice of his parents' barristers.

"I think the turning point in the case was Remus Lupin's testimony," he said between sips of wine. Personally, Draco didn't have anything against Lupin, who always seemed like a nice enough man. To a panel of judges, however, he wasn't much more than his werewolf registry number. "A werewolf giving testimony had to be one of the Mudblood's harebrained ideas. He had no ties to the house and even if everything he said was true, it wasn't any good to Potter without a written will. Completely useless."

"I agree, Draco. More than that, I think having any creature considered inherently dangerous give testimony was a bad idea. Then he verified the fact that my cousin thought himself immortal and saw no need for a will." Narcissa smiled. "Anyone could have told the judges that. Of course, those words coming from a werewolf sealed the case against the Potter boy."

It was just like Gryffindors to think that Lupin would have helped them, figured Draco, even though his last day at Hogwarts was eight years ago. Although Lupin retained a calm composure the entire time he was on the witness stand, his face was white and his eyes shining when he stepped down. It was clear to everyone in the courtroom that even though he had no claim to the house, he had a definite preference for who he wanted to see live in it. Draco almost admired Lupin's ways of maneuvering around the questions he answered concerning Sirius Black's character and intentions.

Lucius raised his glass, his smile matching Narcissa's. "To the end of the trial, and Draco's new home."

Draco grinned and raised his glass but didn't speak much for the rest of the meal. The full impact of the verdict was just starting to sink in, and he let his mind wander, thinking it over.

The trial, Draco realized, had sixteen years' worth of evidence and history. It wasn't until Draco was twenty years old that the Ministry accepted that Sirius Black was really dead, and he was twenty-two before they formed a cohesive picture of the facts regarding Black's innocence in his involvement in the death of James and Lily Potter, and therefore his link to Voldemort. The press went crazy once the Ministry went on public record regarding Black's role in the first war. Half of them vindicated everything Black did, and the other half questioned the Ministry's sanity. Story after conflicting story littered the _Daily Prophet_ for two months. After the Malfoys were mentioned unfavorably by a reporter obviously desperate for any angle the other papers hadn't covered, Lucius strengthened the privacy hexes around the Malfoy property. Narcissa had to talk Lucius out of giving clothes to all the house-elves. Draco turned the press away at every opportunity and focused on his job, determined to have something in his life that didn't have anything to do with wars, his family history, or Harry Potter.

"Draco?"

Most of the background information about Sirius Black presented at the hearings came from some Ministry peon Draco had never heard of named Kingsley Shacklebolt. Apparently he was the one in charge of finding Black in the years between his escape from Azkaban and his death, and Draco figured he was going to swim in a lake of Sirius Black legal shit for at least the next year. Lucius told his family that Shacklebolt most likely had ties to Dumbledore and his cache of conspiracies, but no one could prove it. The _Quibbler_ ran some nonsense article about Shacklebolt's knowing Black's whereabouts perfectly well for years, and even knowing exactly when he died, but neither Shacklebolt nor anyone else would talk about the matter. Certainly not to the _Quibbler_, in any event.

"Draco!"

Blinking, Draco returned his focus to the dinner table. "Er...yes?"

"Your mother asked you if you'd like anything else to eat."

"Oh. No. No thank you." He laid his silverware over the top of his plate and placed his napkin on the table. House-elves ran forward from their places along the wall of the dining room and Draco's plate disappeared almost instantaneously.

After dinner, Narcissa and Lucius celebrated their victory with a drink. Draco declined participation, citing a mild headache. That was more or less the truth. The image of Potter surrounded by reporters, pale and distracted, wouldn't leave him alone. The expression of loss. The sunken eyes. The way his robes hung on his shoulders like they were meant for someone else. Potter's clear indication to Granger that he wanted nothing more in that moment than to get the hell out of there. Draco didn't like to admit it to himself and he would never admit it to anyone else, but he almost felt a little sorry for Potter. Sirius Black was, in the short time they had together, Potter's guiding adult figure. It was understandable that Potter would fight for the strongest tie he had to Black. Potter's demeanor always changed when he spoke of Black on the witness stand. His voice was wistful and he never looked directly at the person questioning him, always up and to the right as though his memories were etched on a wall or ceiling. For all Potter's egomania, Draco knew that he had loved Sirius Black the way any child would love his parent. Even he could see that.

Lucius went to bed early that night, but Narcissa and Draco, as was their tradition whenever Draco visited, stayed up late talking over tea in the library. Raised a Malfoy, half a Black, Draco knew the importance of keeping his family tree in line and he enjoyed these times with his mother when she talked about family members who died years before Draco's birth. Tonight he could relax and chat, but tomorrow it was back to work.

Even though he enjoyed what he did for a living, Draco always looked on his career with a sense of bitterness. He and Lucius argued for months when he announced his decision to try out for professional Quidditch four years ago.

"You're meant for better things, Draco," Lucius said. "It's a short-lived career at best. You need to invest your talents in something that you can support yourself with when you're older. You'll have the family investments, of course, but I will not allow you to live on those."

Draco was prepared for this argument. "I don't expect to live on them. I expect to support myself by having a career in professional Quidditch and investing my earnings wisely. Do you think I've learned nothing from you? I've done the research and I have some ideas for what I'd like to do once I'm no longer on the Quidditch field. What I'd appreciate right now is a little support from you."

Prepared as he was, he wasn't used to talking to his father that way. Lucius sat silent, and to this day those minutes rated as the longest in Draco's life.

"What do you plan to do if you aren't accepted?"

Years later Draco recognized this question as a sign of Lucius's concern, but at the time he saw it only as a lack of faith in his abilities. "I have a few ideas. I'm not bad with potions. I could do research with some of those people you know in Ireland. I have a lot of possibilities. But I want to try this first."

Lucius dismissed him after that, and Draco went to tryouts unsure of his father's feelings. Regardless of blessing or curse, he performed very well at tryouts and won a spot on the Montrose Magpies. For two years, Draco enjoyed a successful career as Seeker and trained as a reserve Chaser. Determination to show Lucius that he could handle his own affairs overshadowed many of the temptations that being young and a professional Quidditch player offered, and within a year he purchased his own flat. Until his accident, he managed quite well.

In November of his third year playing for Montrose, Draco was practicing with his team on their usual field. The day was unseasonably warm, and with too much time in the hospital to think, he wondered if he was too careless with regard to the swift winds. As a professional Quidditch player he was used to sudden gusts, but either this one was faster than usual or he let his guard down a second too long. He fell off his broom from the highest point on the pitch, and no one could stop him in time.

When he regained consciousness in St. Mungo's, he learned that he shattered his right shoulder and arm, two ribs, and his hip. Several vertebrae were knocked out of alignment in the fall, too, damaging nerves in his back and legs. The Healers repaired his broken bones without too much trouble, but repairing nerve damage was highly advanced, delicate work. Draco saw several specialists and endured weeks of paralyzing pain that both frustrated and humiliated him, but eventually the Healers concluded that Draco would always suffer back problems, pain, numbness, and occasional weakness in his extremities and was better off in the swimming pool than a hundred and fifty feet in the air. Professional Quidditch was no longer an option after that. It had taken him months just to be able to function like a normal human being and he still didn't have a hundred percent of his mobility. Even though he was more or less fully healed now, his right side still ached in warning of rain.

The long, boring weeks in recovery gave Draco a lot to think about in terms of his career. Truth be told, he didn't want to work in a potions lab of any kind, regardless of his skill. He loved the sun and wind of the Quidditch field, the excitement of the games, the strategies, the planning, and playing in front of thousands of screaming fans. He couldn't coach and he didn't want to sit in a commentator's box. At that point, he figured his choices were limited at best, and in the lonely hours with no visitors he made lists of possible careers, their pros, and their cons.

It was Lucius of all people who suggested that Draco look into professional Quidditch management.

"I know some people," he said. Draco lay on his back, silent, looking at the ceiling of his hospital room. "Should you desire, I will make the introductions, but know that my reputation is on the line as well as yours and I will not be disappointed."

Management wasn't an angle Draco had considered, but he'd be damned if he didn't rise to that challenge. If he was going to be permanently relegated to a desk in the British and Irish Quidditch League offices, he decided, he was going to be the best that desk ever saw. He proved himself an intelligent worker, shrewd with money and the press, and quickly became known as a leader in European Quidditch. He traveled the world and always had the best of accommodations, and although Lucius never mentioned it, he was sure his father was proud of him. In the long nights after everyone left the stadiums, however, he secretly raged at the misfortune that grounded him. While he enjoyed seeing his old friends during the Montrose games he supervised, said misfortune often had him in a position of managing games for Harry Potter's team, Puddlemere United.

It all came back to Harry Potter, he thought bitterly, running his finger around the rim of his empty teacup, his jaw tight.

His mother's voice brought him back to attention. "Draco? Are you all right?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, just...thinking."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Although he knew his mother would listen to anything he had to say, Draco wasn't in the mood to ramble about his lingering pain and his ultimately unwilling if successful life as a desk jockey. She would never understand how he felt as he sat watching the one person who deserved success less than anyone he knew achieve fame. Again. "No, that's all right. I think I'm going to go home." He put his teacup on the end table and stood to kiss Narcissa good night.

"If you do decide to talk, Draco, you know your father and I will listen."

"I...I do know. Thank you. Good night."

After Apparating home and undressing, he lay in bed for a while with one candle burning, staring up at the heavy canopy. Trying to meditate to sleep like he did on the nights he spent in pain didn't work. He kept seeing Potter in his mind's eye. It was the same image over and over: Potter turning down requests for an interview, dark circles under his eyes and his robes wrinkled. All that fuss over a house. Draco figured that Potter had never wanted anything so badly in his life, but he understood why. Potter was going to explode when he learned that Draco was promised the house, and Draco was going to laugh.

If he could ever get Potter out of his head.


	2. II

II.

Draco rose early the next morning but skipped the exercises he usually did before work. He wanted to read the paper before going anywhere, to be prepared for any letters he might get, or even better, Howlers. If there was any hate mail in Harry Potter's favor it would probably go to his parents, but he didn't like the unexpected.

The _Daily Prophet_ came as the water for his coffee began to boil, and he settled at the glass kitchen table with toast and his coffee cup. One advantage of his current job over his former: He got to eat or drink whatever he wanted. Caffeine was strictly off-limits to players during peak season. The headline on the third page was about what he expected: "Verdict in_ Black _Estate Battle: House Will Remain in the Family." Skimming the article, he was surprised to see words that favored his parents. Finally, a reporter with an eye for the truth. Whoever it was deserved season Quidditch tickets. He turned the page. Sure enough, there was another article and picture of The Man Who Was Defeated By The Malfoy Legal Counsel. If possible, Potter looked even worse in today's photo than he had yesterday in front of the courthouse. He kept turning his head away from the camera. Snickering, Draco scanned the article. Quotes from one of the judges, who reaffirmed his eye only for the law. Pictures, and rather good ones at that, of his parents. Overall, he decided, a fair set of articles.

After finishing his coffee, Draco showered and dressed, taking care to smooth his dark green robes and tie his hair back securely in case reporters congregated outside his office. That was assuming all of them weren't at Potter's residence right now, banging on his front door. Ten Galleons said Potter didn't show up to practice today. Fifteen said he called in sick. A headache, maybe, or a cold. A hangover was more like it. But if Harry Potter wanted to lose a day of practice the week before league championships began, that was between him and his coach.

Securing the door of his flat with a tap of his wand and a hex, Draco Apparated to the British and Irish Quidditch League offices, a building separate, thankfully, from the Ministry of Magic. Instead of a cramped metal table and a modular filing cabinet in the corner of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, he had his own office. Spacious, airy, and bright, it had room for all his files, a couch, extra chairs for meetings, a private fireplace for communications, and an enormous mahogany desk. The desk had been his father's present to him when he earned the office, a near replica of the desk in Lucius's study at home. As a little boy, Draco loved to sit at that desk and pretend he was working on something important, just like his father. Of course, he kept his silly childhood fantasies to himself, but every time he saw the desk in his office a part of him wondered if Lucius picked that particular design knowing what it meant to Draco.

With league championships so close, the offices were a hurricane of papers and agitated team managers. Draco left his door open, the better for his employees to talk with him. Of course, they all saw the open door as an invitation to barge in with whatever ridiculous requests they had. Without knocking.

"Malfoy, do you have the arrangements for the Kestrels-Falcons game next Thursday? The Kestrels want to know if their referee is anyone they've maimed before. They said, quote, 'If it is, we're really sorry.'"

"Malfoy, have you finished reading over those applications for the Irish national team? Someone's got a bug up their arse at the Ministry and wants them in an hour."

"Malfoy, could you please tell the Holyhead coach that the urinals in the locker room are _not_ a personal insult and could you not use the phrase 'Don't get your knickers in a twist' this time?"

While Draco made arrangements for extra security at the Kestrels game, someone knocked at his door. That had to be his personal assistant, Edward Miller, one of the few people in the office perceptive enough to know that Draco's open door did not indicate a field day for rudeness.

"Daily meeting, sir?" Miller stood in the doorway, holding his clipboard. He was very young, not quite a year out of Hogwarts, and had a sort of pinched, nervous look about him that belied an amazing mind for organization and efficiency. "Sorry I'm a little late, but I didn't want to disturb you while everyone else was running in and out. Is this a good time?"

"Better than any other time I'll have today, I suppose. Close the door and sit down."

Miller opened the leather folder in his hand, pulling out some papers. "I figured we could do a quick run-down of your duties for the Puddlemere United game, sir, because that's the first one in the league championships and you'll want to have everything in order as soon as possible. Ballycastle drew for home field advantage and Puddlemere's not happy about that, especially because their Seeker—"

"Missed practice today," finished Draco. He figured it would be bad form to smirk, so he bit the insides of his cheeks. "Did he call in sick?"

"Yes, sir. How did you know? I mean, of course you know, sir. That's your job. Anyway, Puddlemere's reserve Seeker's not up to par right now, problems with injuries, so they want to know if there's any way they can get their game delayed a week and their captain—"

"They won't need him."

"Sir?"

"Their reserve Seeker. They won't need him. Tell Puddlemere their game is on, field disadvantage and all. I don't care if there's a monsoon during that game; they're going to play. Do you read the papers, Miller?" Draco leaned back in his chair, shifting the papers on his desk so Puddlemere's game information was under his right hand.

"Of course, sir, every morning. Oh! Harry Potter is Puddlemere's Seeker."

"He's not sick. Not physically, anyway. He was fine yesterday. Just a little bruised ego. And his is certainly big enough to take a bruise or two or ten."

"Er…yes, sir. He…something to do with a house, correct? If it's all right that I ask you something so personal." Draco liked this about Miller, his manners and shy caution. The same caution he had with people transferred well to his work. It was the reason he rarely made mistakes.

Glancing at his fireplace to make sure no one was trying to communicate with him, Draco sat up. A flick of his wand sealed the door. Miller closed his folder, recognizing the signs of a confidential conversation. He and Draco shared a certain level of candor behind closed doors, and he wasn't afraid to offer his opinion. Their understanding was that Draco would never fire Miller for anything he said in confidence short of a murder confession, but the minute Miller so much as thought about violating Draco's trust, he was out of a job and possibly a career.

"That house has been in my family for generations, do you understand? My bloodline dates back to the Middle Ages. Harry Potter was insane to think that he had any hope of getting that house. Sirius Black was an obviously unstable person and Potter was too blind to see otherwise. He didn't stand a chance." Draco said this in a low, mildly amused voice. "For months he tried to spin it the other way and act like anyone with a heart would just _give_ him the house because he was Harry Potter, the Man Who Caught The Snitch In Last Year's Game Against Wimbourne. This time, however, the wizarding government actually did something right. By the end of the day, the house will be mine. My parents don't want to move, so they're giving the house they won yesterday to me."

"So…you're going to own the house that Harry Potter wants."

"Correct."

Miller looked out the window of Draco's office into the midmorning sun. Deep in thought, he spoke in halting sentences. "Potter wanted that house more than anything. It was all over the papers. It's almost too bad you're going to move in. Can you imagine what Potter would pay you for that house? I can't even fathom the price."

"I'm not going to sell it," said Draco dismissively. "If I did that, I wouldn't be able to spend the money I earned from the sale because my mother would kill me."

"Understandable, sir." Miller paused. "I guess it wouldn't make sense to sell the house your family worked so hard to keep. Turning down a free house doesn't make much sense, either."

Draco sighed. He didn't have the time to think about this now. "I think we should get back to work. Owl Puddlemere and tell them to quit their whining. It's not like they can't survive for a day or two on their reserve Seeker."

The rest of their meeting focused on the league championships; then Draco took a short lunch. The week before tournaments, anyone in his office was lucky to get the chance to eat at all. He knew he didn't have the time for distraction, and certainly not distraction over the new house, but Miller's words, like the image of Potter in front of the courthouse, wouldn't leave him as he tried to eat.

"Can you imagine what Potter would pay you for that house? I can't even fathom the price."

Draco found himself ignoring his paperwork, spinning his quill back and forth between his fingertips. Why was he even thinking about Potter and the house in the same sentence? Potter would be ecstatic at the chance to even _think _about living in that house, and Potter's happiness was the last thing Draco wanted. The curiosity of seeing Potter's reaction to his proposal, though, was tempting. Very tempting. Especially since Potter would pay for that house with a lot of things. And if Draco purposely set the price too high, he would get the satisfaction of owning the house, of taunting Potter with it, and of knowing that Potter didn't own it.

An owl flew in his window and dropped a letter on his desk. The seal on the back of the letter was his mother's.

_Draco,_

Are you still planning to meet us on your lunch break tomorrow? The papers for the house have to be recorded during business hours. If you want to start moving in, you need to meet with us.

_-Mother_

He grabbed a spare piece of parchment and scribbled a reply:

I'll be there. I can't take too long, though, because of the league championships.

D.

Except that secretly, Draco wasn't interested in his parents' plan for what he would do with the house. Secretly, he wasn't interested in getting married and he certainly wasn't interested in having children. Squalling dependent brats did nothing but suck the life out of you for years. He enjoyed his freedom far too much. Freedom allowed him to build his career and enjoy a certain level of privacy. As far as housing, his flat in London, his prime example of his independence, served all his needs and wants. He wasn't even there four, sometimes six months out of the year. He was in no position right now to even think about any sort of long-term commitments to people or to property or really, anything beyond the league championships.

"Miller!"

Having an assistant, Draco decided, was sometimes better than having a house-elf. Miller nearly tripped on the carpet in his rush to answer Draco's summons.

"Yes, sir?"

"Mail this, please." Draco held his response to his mother's letter aloft, and Miller retrieved it.

He had no intention of doing anything other than signing the papers and taking possession of the house, but just because he was no longer playing Quidditch didn't mean he was ready to retire into what life expected from him. He liked the money that he could spend on himself and the freedom that not having a family brought him. What would he do with that great ugly house?

"Anything else, sir?"

"What else were you planning on doing?" Draco placed the papers for the Cannons-Portree game in a folder.

"Sir, I'll take those papers for the Holyhead game if you're done with them."

"The what?"

Miller pointed to the folder on Draco's desk. "Red folder. Those are the Holyhead papers. I'll send them to their management if you're done with them, sir."

Confused, Draco opened the folder. "Oh. No, not done with them yet. I'll let you know when you can send them."

"Are you all right? Do you need a cup of tea or anything?" Miller sounded concerned. Or maybe frightened.

"That's fine for now. Thank you."

Miller nodded and backed out of the room slowly, closing the door on his way out. The click of the doorknob seemed louder than usual. Draco put the Cannons-Portree papers in the correct folder, but let his mind drift after that.

Selling the house would be nothing short of traitorous, but ultimately he knew he was his own person with a life he'd made for himself, and he could do what he damn well pleased. He knew he was supposed to feel something about a house that had been in his family for generations, but he hadn't been there since he was a small child and all he remembered was that crotchety house-elf with the ear hair that died years ago. There was no way to hide the sale of the house from his parents. Hell, he probably wouldn't be able to hide it from the general public, this amazing twist in the _Black_ estate battle. But if the house was his, who would stop him?

A knock at the door made Draco snap to attention.

He groaned. The fastest way to get someone to knock on your door around here was to shut it. "Enter!"

"Got another memo from Puddlemere, sir," said Miller, standing in the doorway and waving a piece of parchment.

"What do they want this time?"

"They said they want an extra week to train with their reserve Seeker, just in case whatever Potter has is catching."

"Tell them, _again_, because they were too thick to pick it up the first time, their answer is no. Potter has many communicable diseases, I'm sure, but none of them are going to affect that game."

"Yes, sir."

Draco figured he had nothing to lose where the house was concerned, and even better, he could put himself in a position to ask anything he wanted of Potter. Of course, he still had to handle the situation with a degree of delicacy. Fighting over the house in court in plain view of the public eye with witnesses and judges was one thing, but when he was one on one with Potter, he couldn't predict anything. Potter had no reason to maintain any kind of public image when the two of them were in private negotiations, and he could have a temper. It wasn't that he thought Potter would do anything unreasonable, but Potter was the media's golden boy and he could easily twist Draco's idea and sell it as a story of attempted extortion.

The sun faded into the west as Draco pulled a new quill and parchment from a drawer. Dipping the quill in black ink, he wrote:

_Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Meet me in front of Gringotts and leave the Mudblood at home. I promise it will be strictly business, and I promise you'll be interested in what I have to say._

_Draco B. Malfoy_

There was no way in hell he'd tell Potter everything in a letter. Owls were too unreliable to trust with this information. His letter to Potter had to be something simple yet cryptic, something that would draw Potter to him. It occurred to him that no one outside his family and Miller knew about Narcissa's plan to sign the house over to Draco, and that was going to work to his advantage.

The letter would do. Potter would have to at least wonder what sort of a way it was, or where it led. Draco folded the parchment, sealed it with his personal stamp, and summoned an owl. When the owl flew away, he collected his bag, straightened his desk, and sent Miller home.

If things went as planned with Potter, Draco was going to give Miller a very large raise.


	3. III

III.

An owl delivered a personal letter to Draco the next morning, and he opened it before the owl could leave.

_Malfoy,_

_I'll meet you, but don't expect too much. Seven o'clock in front of Gringotts._

_Harry Potter_

"Well I'll be damned," said Draco as the owl flew away. "Potter came through." He sat at his desk, rereading the letter and grinning.

The prospect of tonight's plans was going to drive Potter insane all day, if Draco had any grip of the working of Potter's mind. He would second-guess every thought and inclination for the next ten hours and sneak off the pitch to write to Granger and possibly Weasley, asking them for their opinions. Which, of course, was exactly what Draco wanted. The more he could break Potter down, the more he could make Potter wonder what he was planning, the greater his advantage.

Someone knocked at Draco's door. "Enter!"

"Daily meeting, sir?" Miller clutched his portfolio, looking like he'd consumed one too many cups of coffee that morning.

"Yes. Close the door and come sit down." Draco hid Potter's letter in a drawer and pulled the papers for the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game to the top of his pile. "Let me guess: Owl from Puddlemere this morning regarding the miraculous recovery of their Seeker?"

Miller's brow narrowed. "Ah, yes, we did get an owl this morning about that. Sir, would you prefer that we meet later in the day? You seem… Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Miller. Your concern is appreciated." He dipped a fresh quill into ink, making notes on the game forms. "Did Puddlemere say anything else?"

"Not really. Harry Potter is back at practice as of today, though he's still not playing at a hundred percent. They say he should be fine for the game, though, so I figured I'd update you on the plans for that."

"Go ahead. Any major changes?" Draco tried not to sound bored though the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game was the last thing he wanted to talk about. In his effort to keep Potter distracted for the day he was doing exactly that to himself.

"No, nothing major. Ballycastle sent in their final starting lineup, and the referees are still on just like you planned. We finally heard back from Callaghan, that recruiter from the Irish national team, and," said Miller, taking a piece of paper from his folder, "he'll be there. Said he had a cancellation elsewhere so he'll be at the game. I already reserved him a box seat and lined up someone to escort him to the stadium."

"Brilliant work as always, Miller." Most everything Miller did was brilliant, even if Draco did have to remind him to lay off the caffeine.

"Thank you, sir. I also have the final list of advertisers…"

Draco tuned out the majority of what Miller said after that. Instead, he planned conversations with Potter and perfectly timed dramatic pauses in his speech, all against a backdrop of white tablecloths and crystal water goblets. Meeting over dinner was definitely a good idea, Draco decided. Potter was a recognizable figure and was therefore less likely to do or say anything stupid in public. Also, if Potter was as distraught as everyone else seemed to think he was, he might be more inclined to listen to, and accept, Draco's offer. But even if Potter said no to the sale, the sight of him pondering Draco's offer would be priceless.

Sure enough, when Potter showed up in front of Gringotts at seven o'clock, freshly showered and wearing dark blue robes, he looked like he hadn't slept well. Draco, on the other hand, was calm. When Potter Apparated in front of him, he finished the sentence in the book he was reading and stowed the book in his bag, fastening the latches with steady hands.

"Evening, Potter. Pleasure to see you."

"Nice to see you, too," replied Potter in an impatient tone. "Why are we meeting here instead of at Palta?"

Draco hesitated at Potter's directness. "My letter did not specify a choice of restaurant. Why do you assume we're going there?"

"Call it an educated guess."

"I'm surprised you've even heard of it. It's quite exclusive." Annoyed with himself for letting Potter begin the evening with the upper hand, Draco turned and started walking up the street. The restaurant was several blocks away, but an early spring breeze made the walk refreshing.

"Everyone who's ever worked on a contract with you has had dinner at Palta, Malfoy." With a smile, he added, "Everyone who's ever worked on a contract with you also says you order the _tikka masala_." Potter, though he kept up with Draco's pace, seemed a little peaked. Maybe he was still hung over from yesterday.

Palta was small but not cramped, with brass décor and hanging plants everywhere. Draco was on a first-name basis with the owner and contrary to Potter's belief, he had tried most of what was on the menu. In fact, his familiarity with the setting was the reason behind his choice of restaurants. Palta had another advantage: the two of them eating dinner together looked like nothing more than a discussion of professional Quidditch. No one would bother them, except maybe, noted Draco with a twist of his upper lip, to ask Potter for his autograph.

The host led them to Draco's usual table, a two-seater near the back of the restaurant. Draco, never forgetting his manners, held back, indicating for Potter to go ahead of him and take the seat facing the dining room.

"No, thanks. You can sit there." When Draco looked at him, curious, Potter said, "I don't like to have people looking at me when I'm eating. Can we please sit, because there are people staring at us?"

The temptation to make Potter sit where people could see him was almost too great for Draco to resist, but he held back. There was no sense in antagonizing Potter.

"It's interesting that you do that," said Draco, deceptively casual, after they placed their drink orders. "I would think you would want to watch your back at all times." He set his napkin in his lap and scanned his menu, determined not to order the _tikka masala_.

"We all have our idiosyncrasies, I guess. Mine is sitting with my back to people in restaurants. Yours are writing mysterious dinner invitations and doing yoga in your office."

"I do yoga in my office under a Healer's orders. Given the choice of shutting my door and refusing visitors for twenty minutes while I stand in triangle pose or not being able to move, I'll take the former. When half your body is put back together from the pieces of your bones, you don't question what the Healers tell you." Draco stopped himself after the third sentence. Potter knew perfectly well that his mid-afternoon yoga routine wasn't done out of idiosyncrasy. He scowled, pushing back a pang of jealousy.

Their drinks and bread arrived, and Potter thanked the waiter when he took their dinner orders.

Draco pointed to Potter's wineglass. "You should not be drinking that. League championships are next week."

With a look up at Draco over the rim of his glass, Potter took a long sip of wine. Draco could tell Potter was suspicious of him, though exactly what Potter suspected Draco didn't know. "Unless you're planning on owling my coach and telling him, I don't think one glass of wine will hurt anyone. But if you're going to tell him, I suppose it's only fair you mention that I had two cups of coffee and a Mars Bar yesterday. While you're at it, feel free to tell him about my Wednesday night beers with Ron."

"Speaking of your coach, what do you think your chances are against Ballycastle?"

"Is this the 'strictly business' part of your letter?"

"It might be."

Potter broke off a piece of _naan_, chewed, and swallowed. "This is really what you took me out to dinner for?"

"Potter, you are the worst conspiracy theorist I've ever met. I asked you a relatively simple question. I have numbers and statistics on all the teams, of course, but I'm interested in what you think."

"Well," replied Potter with a raised eyebrow, "it's Ballycastle's home field, so that's a strike against us, but I think we have better Chasers. They've got Becker and Donnelly, but Valerian's been ill a lot and his fatigue shows."

"Perhaps. What are your thoughts on Harris?" Ballycastle's Seeker, a Muggle-born who was an experienced equestrian when he got his Hogwarts letter and still rode horses on his parents' farm in Scotland, was one of the few in the league who could compete with Potter on a consistent basis. Harris had a jockey's build, compact and light, and his size gave him a natural advantage in the air.

"Harris is tough competition. He still flies a Firebolt, though."

"And wins a hell of a lot of games on it. An old broom isn't necessarily a bad broom."

"True."

Their dinner arrived, and they ate in silence for a short while.

"So what did Granger and Weasley have to say about my letter?"

"Who says I talked to them?"

"Oh, Potter. You seem to forget that I'm not one of your adoring fans. When I'm standing next to you, I not only remember how to speak English, but I actually think in complete sentences."

Potter's shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. "Hermione thought you might try to hex me, or that you were setting me up to be attacked. Then she figured that since I already knew you were behind it and you figured I'd talk to her, that you probably weren't planning anything like that."

"Good conclusion," said Draco. "I knew Granger might put those brains to use someday. She didn't figure anything out beyond that?"

"We didn't really have the time to discuss it. She's pretty busy."

The clink of their forks against their plates filled the gap in their conversation. Draco noticed Potter stealing glances at him.

"If you have something to ask me, I would prefer that you ask me directly instead of checking to see if the answer is written on my forehead."

"I'm just…wondering." Potter reached for his wineglass but didn't drink from it, content to trace semicircles around the bottom of the glass.

"About what?"

Draco was prepared for Potter to ask why they were here, but not for "Did you really think your side was going to win the war?"

Swallowing just in time to keep from choking and spitting lamb on the pristine white tablecloth, Draco responded, "Excuse me?"

"I mean, didn't you ever lie awake at night wondering what was going to happen, if you'd survive the next day? I know the war's over and--"

"And what? The oh-so-righteous side of light won? Because everything in a war is always black and white with no questions? You are an idiot, Potter, if you think that war solved anything or made anyone's affiliations clear." His tone was harsh and bitter, but he kept his volume low. "You're a bigger fool than I thought you were if you think I _didn't_ lie awake at night wondering if I was going to make it out alive." He was irritated with himself for showing Potter he had pressed a sore spot and irritated with Potter for having the balls to ask in the first place, but he couldn't stop now. This rant was a long time in coming to Potter. "You think I enjoyed watching the people I cared about and respected and…." Draco couldn't say, "loved." Not in front of Potter. "We lost just as many as you did and don't you dare think for a second that I regretted my decisions. Side of light versus the side of dark, my arse. I made the best decisions I could with the information I had. Does that answer your fucking question?"

"We had Dumbledore and you had—"

"You had shit for brains is what you had."

Potter's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "We had _what_?"

"You of all people should know Dumbledore did not equal all that is great and powerful and right. Dumbledore manipulated the hell out of you and gave you the ridiculous notion that the side I fought for was evil. We fought just as hard for what we believed in as you did. In the end, does it really matter? Does it make the people we fought with any less dead?" As he spoke, Draco pointed with the tines of his fork, emphasizing his words.

Stunned, or maybe satisfied, Potter said nothing.

"But we have another matter to discuss," said Draco, laying his fork across the top of his plate. This opportunity, to hit Potter off his guard even when he had another hour's worth of lectures to give, wasn't something Draco could ignore.

Potter still looked off-center when he responded, "And that is?"

"Sirius Black."

At the mention of Black's name, Potter blanched and put his fork down. "What about him?"

Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts. He'd planned all day for this moment and had to get it right on the first try. "My mother signed the Black house over to me."

Potter looked surprised but not shocked. "Hermione said that might happen, but don't your parents want to live there?"

"What for? They've lived in their house since before I was born. It's bigger than the Black house, which needs extensive repairs, and they've got everything they need there. They filed all the papers yesterday, and now my name is on the deed."

"Congratulations." Potter finished his wine and pushed his glass away. "Did you invite me to dinner so you could gloat over this?"

Draco wasn't about to let Potter provoke him. He said his next words gently, in a way that told Potter he was sympathetic to Potter's loss. "Sirius Black meant a lot to you."

Expression softening, Potter said, "Sirius was my…godfather."

"I know. I know Black was important to you and your family in a way that no one else was." He let Potter think on this for a moment, then continued, "I have something you want, Potter, something that has more significance to you than it would to anyone else, and I'm willing to sell it to you. Right now, the only thing standing between you and the Black house is the question of how much Black is worth to you, how far you're willing to go for him."

Potter was slow to answer, and he didn't sound sure of his response. "It's not about what Sirius is worth. This is about what it's worth to me to not have you living in Sirius's house."

Triumph soared in Draco's heart, but he wasn't giving in just yet. "Maybe that's part of it."

Draco said nothing else save for refusing coffee and dessert when the waiter came back. When the bill arrived, he reached into the pocket of his robes. So did Potter.

"I can pay for my own dinner."

"Don't worry about it," said Draco, pulling out his small purse. "Everyone at work thinks I'm taking you out for business reasons. I'll expense it."

With a muffled clink, Potter's money hit the table. "No." He reached for the check and slid it back toward Draco, hand firmly placed over his Galleons. "I'll pay for myself."

Figuring there wasn't much he could do, Draco shrugged and added his coins to the pile. He could allow Potter this one resistance. It wasn't like Potter would get the chance at many more. "At least you tip well," he commented.

Once Potter had his cloak on he tried to leave the restaurant, but Draco took his arm and spoke quietly in his ear.

"Come with me."


	4. IV

IV.

Once they were outside the restaurant, Draco instructed Potter to Apparate to his flat. "You have passed your Apparition test, correct, or were you too busy playing Quidditch to study?"

"In fact," replied Potter, "I passed on the first try."

Draco didn't bother with a response. He let go of Potter's arm, took a step back, and Disapparated.

When Potter appeared in the entrance hall, Draco took his cloak and hung it in the front closet, allowing Potter to wander through the spacious rooms. He could see that Potter was fascinated by the hanging artwork, the cases of books built into the walls, and the reason Draco bought the flat: the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that offered him a glittering view of London.

"This is very nice," said Potter diplomatically, studying a shelf of books.

"I know." Draco shut the closet door. "Why don't you go have a seat in the living room? The fire's warm in there." Not bothering to point Potter in the direction of the living room, Draco headed to the kitchen and pulled two brandy snifters from an overhead cabinet. Lucius and Narcissa made sure that Draco grew up a gracious host, and he was never without quality wine and brandy on hand. He poured the brandy after rubbing his hands together for a minute to warm them, and carried both glasses into the living room.

Potter looked away from the fire as Draco presented a glass to him. "Oh. Er, thank you." He took the glass awkwardly, like he'd never seen a brandy snifter before, with one hand near the rim and the other at the wide base. Draco wanted to laugh at Potter's obvious lack of social graces, but he caught himself. Laughing now could mean he'd be stuck with that monstrous house forever. Rather than take a seat on the leather chair at a right angle to the couch, he sat next to Potter, drink in one hand, and reclined back.

"Now that we're a little more...relaxed, I thought you might like to hear a little more about my offer."

"You don't deserve to live in that house," said Potter, turning to the side. He didn't drink the brandy, but looked down into it as though trying to see if it was poisoned.

"According to the courts," replied Draco, taking a sip, "I do. I have papers that say I own it regardless of what you think I deserve. And now that I own it, I plan to sell it." He pointed to Potter's glass. "Drink. That's one of the best ever made, not that you'd appreciate it."

"Speaking of appreciating, you know," said Harry, "the Black house has years of your family history attached to it. I wouldn't think you could put a monetary value on it."

"Of course I can. How thick are you? I'm not the one who's still pining over Black's death. I barely knew him and to what I'm sure is your great surprise, my mother never talked much about him. I could easily sell this house, which I haven't even been to since I was four, as long as my mother doesn't find out before the papers are signed. As far as I'm concerned, it has a definite monetary value."

Potter didn't say anything, but looked into the fire as he took another sip of his drink.

Patience thin, Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts. If he let his agitation show, Potter could get up and leave in anger, and then he might be stuck with the house. Invoking the same sympathetic tone he used at dinner, Draco continued. "I also know what Sirius Black meant to you. I saw your fight for the house. I saw you outside the courtroom afterward, and let me tell you, your picture was trying everything it could not to end up on the front page of the next day's _Prophet_. You put yourself on the line for that house, and I have to say, I kind of admired that. It's part of the reason I'm offering you the house first."

"How generous of you. Giving me a house you never wanted in the first place. Very charitable, that."

"For once, Potter, drop the attitude and listen." He whispered now, and Potter moved closer. Draco noticed that Potter's fingertips were white against the bowl of his glass. "I didn't say I was_giving_ it to you. I said I was _offering_ it to you." A troll had more ability to make fine distinctions.

"I can pay you anything you want."

With a shake of his head, Draco said, "I don't want your money or your possessions. I've got enough of my own already, as you've seen. What I want from you is something a little less tangible. Or maybe a little more tangible, depending on how you look at it."

Confusion narrowed Potter's brow. The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them. "Do you... Do you want me to throw the Ballycastle game or something?"

"What good would that do me? I'm management. I'm outside the realm of caring who wins as long as no one cheats or bribes the referees."

Frustrated, Potter snapped, "Well, you're going to have to tell me directly what it is you want, then, because I lost my interest in guessing games a long time ago."

Draco took a sip of brandy, held it in his mouth a second, then swallowed, letting the warmth spread through his throat into his chest. The rush of heat from liquor always calmed him. He wanted to take his time with this.

"Look around you, Potter. I own rare books and original artwork. Obviously I don't need your money. What I could use, however, is a little... Let's call it 'indentured companionship.'

"I'll employ you for a short while. During the term of your employment you are to do what I ask of you, whatever it may be. I promise I won't ask you to do anything illegal. When I terminate you, the house is yours."

The glass shook in Potter's hand. "What if I don't like the terms of your offer?"

"Then you don't have to take it." Draco shrugged. "I could rent out my flat, move into the house, get my mother to fix it up, and live there for a while. But I seem to remember you saying something about it not being how much the house is worth, but how much it's worth to you to not have me living there. It's all up to you, of course."

"You..." Potter's jaw tightened and Draco saw him curl and uncurl his fist. What was left of his brandy nearly spilled over the side of his glass. "You filthy son of a bitch. This is blackmail."

"No," replied Draco, "this is business." His throat felt tight from speaking so quietly, but it was the only way he could guarantee that Potter would focus on him. "If you want the house, you can pay for it just like anyone else. Unlike the rest of the world, I'm not going to give you special treatment and drop things in your lap just because you're Harry Potter."

Squinting, Potter tilted his head slightly to one side. Draco noticed that Potter was looking at his mouth, rather than into his eyes, and Draco liked the lack of eye contact. It took the edge off his performance anxiety, and knowing he wasn't under such close scrutiny made the words come faster. "We both know that the house is worth more to you than it is to anyone else, and from that I conclude you'd be willing to pay more than the average witch or wizard." Wrapping his fingers around Potter's wrist, he said, "I'm curious to see how much more." For a moment, he was distracted by the softness of the brushed cotton of Potter's robes and the warmth of his pulse. He tried to maintain a casual tone and wasn't sure he succeeded.

Potter's eyes widened for a second, and he looked from his wrist to Draco's face. "But don't you want something more, I don't know, permanent? Working for you and maybe being your house-elf for a little while doesn't seem like much for something your mother fought so hard for."

"Are you arguing with me, Potter? Because it sounds to me like you're giving every reason you can think of for me not to offer you this house. Which is fine with me, but I've got better things to do with my time than get jerked around by you, especially when you happen to be drinking my very expensive brandy."

Pulling his arm back, Potter retorted, "What if I say no and tell you to take the house and go fuck yourself?"

Draco took a slow sip of brandy. Potter was irritating the hell out of him and he was close to shoving him off the couch, but he kept his temper. "You ask me that like it would bother me. It won't. Haven't you been paying attention? If you get up and leave, I won't be any worse off than I was before. I've got nothing to lose, and there's nothing stopping you. You're the one with the free will here. You're the one who's being offered a house you might never see again if it weren't for me. You're the one who went to court to fight for it, not me. I'm not getting why you think I should be upset over this."

Potter looked like he was struggling for words. "Because what you're doing is...is..."

Affecting a yawn, Draco finished Potter's sentence. "It's wrong and immoral and dirty business and blah blah blah and are you going to accept my offer or not?" He was beginning to regret writing Potter that letter. "Because if you're not, you can leave. Look, if you want, you can have a couple of days to think this over. I realize you've never worked a day in your life and the idea of having to do so for a little while is a harsh new concept you'll have to come to terms with. But you know, it seems a little odd to me that even though you wasted months of your life in court, you're still not willing to fight one hundred percent for the house."

"I think you know as well as I do that I am."

"Well, then?" Smiling, lips closed, Draco sat back. They said nothing, Potter watching the flames.

"Sometimes I think every now and again about what advice Sirius might give me," said Potter, turning his head to face Draco, "and in this case I figured he'd want me to just pull out my wand and hex you, maybe even kill you."

"Coming from a murderer, that doesn't surprise me at all," replied Draco. "But all violence and idiocy aside, what else did you figure?"

"Well that's the fucking pot calling the kettle black," countered Potter with a glare. "How many have you killed?"

"One less than you, from what I hear." He smoothed his robes and said, "I think you're forgetting the war part of all being fair in love and war, as long as we're trading lame clichés. So. I asked you a question."

Shoulders relaxing, Potter said, "I also figured that it might be worthwhile to listen to your offer. But Malfoy, I'm perfectly willing to buy the house from you. I've got the money."

"Really?" He pointed to Potter's watch. "One would think you'd buy a decent watch if you did. Did you not listen to a word I said?"

"I... Yes, of course. I just figured that was what you'd ask from...from anyone else."

"If I wanted to sell the house to anyone else, I would," said Draco. "I would take their money and live quite happily ever after. But you don't see anyone else here, do you?"

Potter leaned against the side of the couch and sighed. Draco saw the same resigned expression, the same slump of defeat in Potter's back that he'd seen on the day of the verdict. Potter downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp and pressed his lips together, like he was trying not to gag.

"The house in exchange for my... whatever it is you want to call it."

"Don't sound so excited, now. One might think you were actually considering my offer." Raising an eyebrow, he reached for Potter's wrist again. This time, Potter acted like nothing happened, but Draco was close enough to see the pulse in Potter's neck quicken. "The offer comes with two conditions."

"That I keep our agreement a secret?"

"All right, three conditions. Secrecy is the first. Second, I want you to go into this willingly. If you think you haven't got the nerve to do what it takes to get the house, then quit. Don't go in thinking that you'll get out of your end of the bargain by annoying me so much that I give you the house just to get rid of you. That brings me to the third condition: Resist me and I'll sell the house to someone else. I do not need your prima donna pro-Quidditch-player Boy-Who-Lived ego in this flat. If Sirius Black's house isn't worth putting yourself aside for, then nothing is. Now, are you absolutely sure that you're ready to accept my offer?" he asked, tightening his grip.

"I...I'm sure."

Tilting his head to one side, Draco leaned in toward Potter's face. "_How_ sure?" he asked, his lips an inch from Potter's.

Draco could see that his plan was working. Potter wasn't scared, but he was caught in a loop of thought. Cheeks flushed, Potter looked away from him, drawing a deep breath as though relieved by the air outside Draco's presence. Draco caught an unusual scent, like green herbs and clean laundry. He inhaled, filling his core with the cool fragrance, a welcome change from the warm, dry fire.

"You don't have to answer me yet," said Draco, his words barely a disturbance in the silence, "but you will soon. One way or the other, this is entirely your decision. I think two days sounds fair enough, don't you?"

"Fine." Potter didn't turn his head back toward Draco's. While Draco liked this, as he took it as a sign of Potter's cowardice, he was hoping that Potter would challenge him a little more. He stood, summoning Potter's cloak from the front closet.

"Good night, Potter. You know how to reach me when you've made your decision."

"Good night, Malfoy." He stood, took his cloak from Draco's hands, and pulled it around his shoulders, Disapparating with a crack.


	5. V

V.

The day after Potter left his flat, Draco couldn't concentrate, and that pissed him off. He spilled coffee all over the Holyhead papers, broke the tip off his best quill, and flew into an unnecessary rage at Miller. To Miller's credit, he remained mostly calm throughout Draco's mood swings, though there were moments when Draco could see the folders in Miller's hands shaking. Draco also got the feeling that Miller switched his afternoon tea to something decaffeinated, but he wasn't going to call him on it. The last thing he needed was more stress, chemical or not. The Cannons-Prides game was scheduled for the following Tuesday and he had barely looked at the Cannons' starting lineup.

On top of the office chaos, he felt rain approaching. His ribs, hip, and arm hurt and Miller, whose sinuses were more accurate than the weather wizards, complained of a headache. Thinking of Potter, the house, and the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game kept Draco awake for most of Thursday night. He barely made it to work on time on Friday morning.

"The game tomorrow is going to be a mess," said Miller over a cup of coffee and a shared dose of pain-relieving potion at their Friday meeting, their last before the start of league championships. "Valerian still has health issues. Some referees are having travel problems, but I think we're just down to one missing and the rules do state that a qualified impartial party can step in, so it's not a complete loss. We can get someone from the Department, or I can owl whoever is first on the substitute list." He flipped through his papers. "The campgrounds the league rented for the duration of the tournament are overbooked, but there are always some people who don't show up, so maybe it won't be that bad. And you and I both know the weather's going to be complete rot. We'll probably lose some money on door tickets."

"The first game of the championships never goes as planned, so let's do one thing at a time, Miller. Start with Valerian." Despite his distraction over waiting for Potter's decision, which was due by midnight tonight, Draco was still mostly on top of his business. "Ballycastle…. Idiots should have known Valerian couldn't possibly be up for league championships. What were they thinking? I sent them an owl about it at his first sign of relapse and does their coach pay attention? Of course not." He shook his head and reached for the list of reserve Ballycastle Chasers. "Valerian's out of practice and weak and I cannot believe they're pulling this shit with less than twenty-four hours to go before the game."

Blatant disregard for players' health and welfare upset Draco more than almost anything else, and not just because cavalier coaches made his job more difficult. He knew from experience how easy it was for players to hide their illnesses and injuries to the point where a recovery day or three early in the season would have saved them from losing later games. It was one of the most important things he could do as League Team Manager, he believed, to advocate for the players' long-term careers when their coaches were too concerned with short-term wins. "Who are they putting in?"

"Lina Park, but they need your approval first. They said if Park can't go on, they want Christie Hitchings, but I think Hitchings has some eligibility issue or the other."

Draco pulled out Hitchings's file, which Ballycastle had included with their memos. "She's behind on her dues. Not the end of the world. Owl Ballycastle and tell them if they think she has to go on tomorrow that she needs to be paid up. But Park should be fine," he said, initialing her name on his list.

"Off the record?" asked Miller, leaning slightly forward. "I don't think it matters who they put in as Chaser, not as long as they have Harris. Potter is good, but Harris is better, even though Puddlemere's Chasers are superior to Ballycastle's. But like I said, off the record."

"Is that what you're saying to everyone you plan to collect from later?" Draco smiled. Miller regularly put a few Galleons in the office betting pool. He was hardly ever wrong in his predictions and had cleaned out the pool more than once. Draco himself never participated, but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy the gourmet coffee Miller brought him on the Mondays after he won the pool.

Miller maintained an innocent expression. "Me? Place a bet? You know I don't gamble, sir."

"Of course. A fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself would never gamble. So, whom have you bet on?"

"Puddlemere. But I think Harris is going to catch the Snitch. Went double or nothing on it, even."

"Well, good luck with that."

"Yes, sir."

Later that afternoon, an owl flew up to Draco's window. Personal mail always came to him via that window, rather than through Miller. It was probably something from his mother. He opened his window and took the letter. This wasn't a great time for one of her well-intentioned yet nagging letters, but he knew he had to read it now. Notes from his mother were like weeds; if he didn't address them immediately, they would multiply until they took over everything.

"You. Don't go anywhere yet," he said to the owl.

The seal on the back of the parchment wasn't the family crest. It had to be from Potter. Draco stood at his window as he ripped the parchment open.

_Malfoy,_

_I accept your offer. I'll talk to you tomorrow._

Harry Potter

Draco couldn't help smiling. "Somehow I figured you'd do the right thing, Potter."

He took a fresh piece of parchment and a quill from his desk. As he dipped the quill into ink, he hesitated, quill hovering near the parchment. He was at a loss for words. What he wanted was a pointed comeback, but the moment wasn't really lending itself to such. Then again, maybe what the moment really called for was silence. Keeping Potter in suspense as to what would come. Fucking with his mind a little.

He replaced the quill and parchment. It would be far better, far more satisfying, to approach Potter in person. In real time, Potter wouldn't be able to think and rethink before he responded, or erase his thoughts from parchment five times before fabricating a perfect reply. Best of all, Draco could face him one-on-one, not giving Potter the chance to consult with anyone as to what he should say.

"Never mind," he told the owl. "Go."

As the owl flew away, Draco reached for the Ballycastle-Puddlemere papers. Tomorrow's game had to be his primary focus.

Saturday, as Draco's bones had predicted, was gray, rainy, and cold. It was terrible weather for playing Quidditch and even worse for watching it. Draco's alarm clock rang at seven-fifteen. He didn't have to be at the stadium until nine, but his parents had invited him for breakfast, an invitation that was, he knew, not optional. After a shower, tea, and a glance through the morning's _Daily Prophet_, he Apparated to his parents' home.

"It's good to see you, sweetheart," said Narcissa as Draco straightened his robes in the front hall. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek as she hugged him. "We know you're busy, but you could at least write a few lines. Or come for dinner. Don't you get lonely all by yourself?"

Were the guilt trips starting already? Draco counted to five before responding. Every time he visited, his parents went right for the personal-question jugular. "Not really. Well, not this week, anyway. League championships start today, so I've barely seen my flat this week. I've put in some very long hours and the next four weeks aren't looking any better. Maybe when championships are over I'll be able to come for dinner."

The scent of bacon wafted through the dining room as they sat down. Lucius lowered his paper, removed his reading glasses, and smiled tightly at Draco.

"Nice of you to join us. I barely recognized you."

"Father, this is a hectic time for me." Draco reached for a basket of toast and the butter dish. "I was just telling Mother that this is our busy season. League championships begin today. You know that."

"And then you start national and international recruiting."

"Yes. A couple of people over at the Ministry offices are making noise about a North American tour, but I'm trying to talk my way out of it."

Lucius took a sip of coffee. "Draco, it's not very good business practice to refuse a travel opportunity."

Though he knew his father only meant to offer what he thought was good advice about handling his job, Draco was annoyed by Lucius's chastising tone. Yes, his father was well connected in the Ministry, but Draco hated when he acted like he knew the day-to-day politics of the British and Irish Quidditch League. "We've talked about this before. It might not be good business practice, but the Ministry department knows I hate going to the States. They can send someone else. I've earned enough seniority to be able to say no from time to time and believe me, not having to go to New York or Boston is well worth the minor loss of my reputation." The look on Lucius's face said that he still disagreed with Draco, so Draco tried to lighten the mood. "Besides, have you ever been to New York in the summer? It smells like what London must have smelled like before indoor plumbing."

"Honey, do you plan on taking any holiday time this year at all?" asked Narcissa, sensing the tension forming between Draco and Lucius. "Your father and I admire your work ethic, but you're going to burn out."

"Actually, I was thinking of maybe taking some time off once the international tournaments are done and teams resume their regular training in the fall. I haven't had a real holiday in a while and I was thinking it might be nice to go back to Iceland. I haven't been there in a long time."

Draco stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth to keep from babbling, and the three of them lapsed into silence. He hated talking to his parents about his work. Lucius only thought he understood what Draco did every day and Draco didn't feel like explaining the inner workings of professional Quidditch to him. More importantly, Draco knew Lucius would likely never understand how much the rewards of his work - the freedom and financial independence - were worth to him. Lucius came to wealth the same way Malfoys had for generations: he inherited it.

On his twenty-first birthday Draco had inherited a sizeable sum of his own, but nearly all of it was untouched in his vault in Gringotts, earning interest. He enjoyed the fact that he would never have to worry about money in his life. Since he'd started making his own way in the Quidditch world, however, the pleasure of knowing that he could live off his inheritance had taken a back seat to the pleasure of knowing that he and only he had secured himself financially, that only his earnings and smart investing had put him in the position to buy his own flat. There was something immensely satisfying about being able, if he wanted, to tell his parents to go to hell and still be able to maintain his lifestyle. Not that he planned on doing such a thing, but somehow, even after seeing his parents win the Black house, the Malfoy money didn't mean as much to him as it used to.

House-elves brought platters of eggs, bacon, and cinnamon scones, Narcissa's favorite, to the table. After they returned to the kitchen, Lucius asked, "When do you plan to move into the house, Draco?"

The eggs in Draco's mouth lost their taste. "Well, er, didn't you want to do some work on it first? I thought it needed repairs."

"Oh, it does," replied Narcissa, "but they're not as extensive as I thought they would be." She smiled, clearly excited, ignoring her food. "The framework of the house is in very good shape, as is the roof. I've consulted with a few cleaning and building crews and they said if they work full-time they could probably be done in a few weeks, a month at most. Are you going to start working on selling your flat?"

This was not going the way Draco wanted it to. He had to buy himself more time than his mother was offering. "Not until after league championships, definitely, and I might even wait until after international trials. I haven't got the time to deal with that right now."

"If you wanted, I could talk to Mr. Belov for you. He was instrumental in helping us to get the house, you know, and we're so thrilled to be able to give it to you. You wouldn't even have to worry about selling your flat. He could prepare everything, run the sale, and all you would have to do is sign the papers."

"No! I mean, Mother, really, that's very kind of you, but now is not a good time for me to be dealing with paperwork and cleaning crews and whatnot." Draco put his fork down and made sure his mother maintained eye contact. "The next few weeks are going to be extremely busy for me, and in the evenings I will probably want to curl up in front of my fire with a very stiff drink, assuming I actually get home at night. The last thing I will want to do, I guarantee you, is faff around with real estate. Can we please drop this conversation until after international tryouts are over?"

"Draco, watch your tone around your mother," said Lucius in the voice he used when Draco misbehaved as a teenager. "She's trying to make your life easier."

"Mother, I apologize. It's just that right now, the only person who's going to make my life easier is the substitute referee at the game today. Or someone who can keep it from raining until the game is over." He looked into his coffee cup. Empty. Maybe that was for the best. His nerves were fraying fast enough just from talking to his parents.

"Speaking of the game, any thoughts on who will win today?" asked Lucius.

Checking his watch, Draco was relieved to see that it was a quarter to nine. "Not sure." The terms of his contract with the League restricted him from talking about anything interesting that wasn't in the _Prophet_ or on the WWN, and he didn't like to make predictions about any of the games for fear of being accused of using insider knowledge for personal gain. "I don't know if you saw the papers this morning, but Valerian's ill again and Ballycastle had to put in a reserve. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the team altogether at the end of the season. It's too bad, because he was very strong on defense. Of course, Ballycastle also has Harris, who's arguably the best Seeker in the league. Maybe in all the UK. Put that together with this weather and who knows?"

Draco figured he had about a minute before they started asking if he'd met any nice pureblooded witches lately. He placed his silverware to indicate he was done. "Sorry I can't stay to chat," he said, removing his napkin from his lap, "but I really have to go. I have to be at the stadium early to deal with some…personnel issues."

Lucius and Narcissa nodded. "We'll be watching the games, of course," said Lucius as Draco walked around the table to hug his parents goodbye. "Try to at least owl us this week and let us know you're all right."

"I will."

The British and Irish Quidditch League kept a small office inside the stadium, and when Draco Apparated there he found Miller hard at work sorting papers and answering questions from referees.

"Mr. Malfoy, sir, you're here. Good. The delegation from the Irish national team is set to arrive in an hour. The vendors are getting set up but they're whinging a lot about this rain."

"Tell them to take it up with sales and advertising. Vendors are not my problem." Draco placed his briefcase on the desk, hung up his cloak and took the robes that designated him as league management off a hook at the back of the office. From behind a dressing screen in the corner he asked, "Have any of the players arrived yet?"

"Vakros, Harris, Potter, and Donnelly have checked in. They're in the locker rooms. Park should be here any minute if you want to—"

"You said Potter was here?" Draco pulled the robes over his head and smoothed the front.

"Yes. He checked in not long before you got here. Did you want me to summon him, sir?"

"No, that's fine, Miller, thank you. I'll go see him."

"Is he thinking about trying for a spot on another team?"

Draco nearly tripped on the edge of the dressing screen as he returned to his desk. "Is he what?"

"Some people in the office said you had dinner with him earlier this week. His contract with Puddlemere is up for renewal, isn't it? I think a lot of it is going to depend on how he plays against Harris today, because Puddlemere's—"

"Miller, no one appreciates your views of professional Quidditch more than I, and I mean that sincerely, but sometimes you need to tune out the office gossip. Potter's contract is a matter between himself and Puddlemere. If I wanted our conversation to be made public I would have gone to the _Prophet_. Understood?" Picking up a folder, Draco headed for the door.

"Yes, sir."

The locker room was humid and significantly warmer than the office. A few other players had arrived. Draco greeted them briefly as he looked down the rows of lockers. Potter sat on a bench in a row by himself, already dressed in his team robes. He raised one arm over his head and stretched to the side, and for a fleeting moment Draco felt a pang of envy. Jealousy of those whose careers had moved on without him, a jealousy strong enough to twist his stomach, was something he hid well until he entered a locker room during championship season. He should be here right now, Potter's equal on the field, maybe even playing against him. But for that freak gust of wind, he could be in his own team robes, doing those same stretches. Just watching Potter made him all too conscious of his tight hamstrings and the stiffness in his arm.

"Potter!"

Surprised, Potter lowered his arm and turned in the direction of Draco's voice. "Malfoy. Um, it's, er, good to see you." In a quieter tone, he said, "I thought we weren't meeting until after the game."

Draco sat down on the bench. "I figured now was as good a time as any."

"Er, I guess, but I really want to get some warm-ups done and clear my head a little before we go out on the field. Can we talk afterward?"

Draco's widened his eyes. "Potter, are you trying to negotiate your way around your own agreement? That's not very becoming." He shifted so he was facing Potter, and their knees touched. "We'll talk now. Or rather, I'll talk and you'll listen. Got that?"

Potter scowled, but nodded. He backed away from Draco and crossed his arms over his chest.

"After the game, Apparate to my flat. Don't make any plans to go out tonight." The night before, Draco had decided that his flat would be the best place to meet. It gave him home field advantage, as it were. The place was spelled to protect him, every piece of art and furniture and literature chosen because it pleased him. Potter would have no choice but to know that he, like those possessions, was under Draco's control. Maybe it was a petty thing, making Potter skip what was sure to be a hard-earned celebration just to come over and maybe serve him dinner and clean his kitchen. But the house, Draco remembered, that house was anything but petty where Potter's feelings were concerned.

"Tonight? But we always go out after the game. If I don't join them it'll look suspicious. A couple of people have asked me already how my contract negotiations are going. Seems they saw us together at Palta and they think I'm leaving Puddlemere."

"Your choice. Your teammates or the Black house." Shrugging as though he didn't care which option Potter chose, he said, "Fake a sore throat or something. I'm sure it's not the first time someone had to back out of the post-game drinks." A quick glance over his shoulder revealed no one else in the row of lockers, but Draco bent to speak into Potter's ear. Potter's hair tickled his forehead.

"If you decide to come to my flat, you don't need to bring anything, but you should expect to be there for a good portion of the night. And if for any reason I read about your visit in the _Prophet_, I move into the house within an hour. Is that clear?"

"But I…" It was obviously killing Potter to agree to anything Draco suggested. He squirmed, taking quick glances around to see if any of his teammates had come to rescue him. "Come on, Malfoy. You've got to let me have this one night. What if I came tomorrow morning? There's no training scheduled. I could be there by… eight? Nine?"

Since Potter seemed to have all the agreeableness of a toddler, Draco decided to employ a little child psychology. "All right. You're welcome to come by on Sunday instead of tonight. But by then, you'll be competing for the house against the highest bidder. I hope Puddlemere plans to give you a raise."

He stood quickly and began to walk away. Potter grabbed his sleeve.

"Malfoy, wait!" came Potter's tight whisper.

"Yes?" Draco asked, turning so they were once again face to face.

"I'm… I'm sorry. I'll be there. At your flat, after the game."

"Yes, you will," Draco replied, keeping his smile to himself.

The rain, as Miller had predicted, had less than desirable effects on the game. Door sales for tickets were abysmal. The game went on much longer than expected because both Seekers had difficulty seeing the Snitch. A small monitor inside the administration's tent on the side of the pitch provided Draco with a close, and more importantly, dry view of the game. For much of it he focused on Keaton Harris, who was a graceful, agile player and an absolute joy to watch. The international sports papers all predicted that he was in the running to be the next Viktor Krum. Draco couldn't disagree. He hadn't had the chance to play against Harris, but he'd seen him go head to head with the league's best. Every fight for the Snitch was a challenge, just the way Draco believed it should be. That was what he missed more than the flying itself, he knew. The challenge. Not that his current job didn't challenge him in other ways, but it wasn't anything to match the euphoria of winning.

Five hours after the game began, Harris caught the Snitch. Miller was triumphant in his betting; Puddlemere won by twenty points. The weather had worked in Miller's favor. Even though they couldn't win, Ballycastle leaned heavily, maybe too heavily, on Harris to end the game. Playing in the rain with a reserve Chaser during championships was too much of a burden for them. Puddlemere would go on to play the winner of the Cannons-Prides game.

Draco frowned as he packed up his papers and left the tent for the office. There was no way the Cannons would win. They were the worst team in the league, always had been. The Prides were going to play against Puddlemere in the third round. That game, thought Draco, was just going to be a big Harry Potter media frenzy. Portree had excellent Beaters and a Keeper with a consistent record, but Puddlemere was going to make them look like a Hogwarts house team. Potter was probably going to catch the Snitch in about five minutes and his picture would be all over the sports section of the _Prophet_ the next day.

Back at the office, Miller was in a particularly good mood.

"Excellent prediction on Harris catching the Snitch, Miller. What did you win?" Draco asked as he changed into his day robes.

"Whatever's in the office pool, and Brennan from sales is buying my lunch for a week. I've got it planned already. Indian on Monday, Pret-A-Manger on Tuesday, and there's that new hamburger restaurant next to the ice-cream place for Wednesday..."

Miller's menu recitation was interrupted by coaches and referees bearing paperwork, and for the next hour he and Draco signed, filed, recorded, and sent owls. It definitely wasn't one of the parts of his job that Draco looked forward to, and it was seven o'clock before they could leave.

The latches on Draco's briefcase snapped shut, and he tapped them with his wand. "Have a good evening. I'll see you Monday morning. We'll have to go over some things for the Cannons-Prides game, then it's Holyhead versus Montrose in the other bracket."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

Potter arrived at Draco's flat around eight, his hair still wet. The scent of the aloe soap the Quidditch league kept in their showers filled Draco's kitchen. The two of them sat at the table, a bottle of white wine and two glasses between them.

"So, what's for dinner?" asked Draco, pouring himself some wine and relaxing in his chair.

Draco's question seemed to surprise Potter. He looked up, confused. "Dinner?"

"Yes, Potter, dinner. You know, the evening meal. I expect you're hungry after the way you played today."

"I lost. And I don't feel much like cooking." Potter sulked and ignored his own wineglass.

Draco rolled his eyes. Really? This was Potter's answer? First, he slid his wineglass and the bottle to one side so Potter had an unobstructed view of him. Then he sat up straight and spoke in a cold, patronizing voice. "So. You come here knowing that you're on my clock, and I mention dinner and your first response is that you don't feel like cooking? Potter, where are your brains?"

"I should have seen the Snitch earlier. It wasn't more than five feet over Harris's head at one point," said Potter, not paying attention to Draco.

"I know that. I watched the game. Everyone but you saw the Snitch. Everyone knows that Ryne, not you, won the game by knocking that Bludger right into Harris so Puddlemere had the chance to get far enough ahead to still win when he caught the Snitch. And now the game is over and I'd like some dinner." He paused. Potter was looking down at his hands, still visibly upset with himself. Though he was irritated by Potter's resistance to his orders, there was something in the defeated look on his face that made Draco soften a little. "Look, I'll excuse you from cooking tonight, if you'd rather do takeaway. But I'm in pain and hungry and I was not planning on spending the evening listening to you whinge about the fact that Harris is a better Seeker than you."

The last line seemed to transport Potter back to reality. "Harris and I are equally matched!"

Who did Potter think he was kidding? He was out of his damn mind. "We can have that argument _after dinner_. Which you're going to procure, one way or the other, right now."

"Hmph." Potter reached for the wine. He poured like a troll, Draco noticed, gripping the bottle as though he were trying to choke it. When his glass was full, he took a few sips. These seemed to take the edge off his attitude. The next time he spoke, the confrontation in his voice was replaced with grudging acceptance. "Fine. Dinner. What do you want?"

"Pad thai." Indian might have been his default choice for business dinners, but Draco's greatest weakness was for pad thai. It was his comfort food, perfect, in his opinion, for this weather. "There's a place in Copenhagen that'll do—"

"I'm sorry, where?" Potter asked in disbelief.

"Copenhagen. You took great pride in telling me that you passed your Apparition test on the first try, so I know you'll be able to get there. They're quick with takeaway and I also like the panang curry, if you were looking for a suggestion for yourself." He reached for a quill and spare piece of parchment. "Here's the address." Sketching a small map, he added, "And here's a guide. Look for the apothecary shop across the street."

Potter stood and accepted the parchment, though he looked rather bewildered. "You really don't have a place around the corner where you go for this?"

"No, and your questioning me isn't going to make one appear out of thin air. Go."

Studying the map for a moment, Potter replied, "All right. I'll be back, er, soon." He Disapparated straight from Draco's kitchen.

While Potter ran his errand, Draco changed out of his workday robes into dark trousers and a white shirt. Then he stoked the fire in his living room and sat down to read a novel, the rain against his floor-to-ceiling window diffusing the lights of London.


	6. VI

When Potter returned, Draco tapped his watch. "It's been nearly three quarters of an hour. That pad thai had better still be warm. When it's reheated the noodles stick together and I don't like that."

"You didn't tell me the restaurant was Muggle-owned. I didn't have any Muggle money with me," said Potter. He placed the bag of food on the counter and reached into Draco's cupboards to retrieve plates and water glasses.

Draco snorted. "Do you sometimes forget you're a wizard, Potter? Or you were too busy making out with Weasley the day Flitwick taught the Confundus Charm? 'Didn't have any Muggle money,' honestly," he said, peeking in the bag and breathing in the fragrant steam.

"Chopsticks are in the drawer next to the sink," said Draco, closing the bag and taking his place at the table. "Don't tell me you don't know how to use them."

"Then I won't," Potter replied as he brought over plates, food, one set of chopsticks and one fork. Draco stared pointedly at the food and place settings, his hands in his lap. Not paying attention to Draco, Potter spooned pad thai onto his own plate and poured himself a glass of wine.

"Ahem."

"Something wrong, Malfoy?" Potter asked, not bothering to put his fork down.

"Yes, there is. I'm having a very difficult time deciding if you're stubborn, gullible, or just dim," said Draco, injecting acid into his words. "You traveled all that way and brought back food at my behest, and yet my plate is still empty."

Potter narrowed his eyebrows. "So put food on it," he retorted, holding Draco's gaze. "Prove your chopstick-using superiority."

To his surprise, Draco had to stop himself from smiling. There was something appealing about Potter's minor acts of defiance. They made Draco feel engaged, enlivened. And hadn't he always prided himself on being able to think on his feet?

"You're the one who agreed to the indentured companionship. I'm indenturing you." He pushed his plate across the table. The rim met the edge of Potter's plate, which slid forward, nearly into his lap. "I can eat my dinner, or you can wear yours."

If Draco didn't know better, he'd have sworn Potter stifled a laugh. With his lips pressed together, Potter busied himself serving Draco, even chilling Draco's wineglass with a tap of his wand before pouring.

"That's better. Now, Potter," Draco said as he finished his first bite, "I know you're not used to doing much work, if any, but when you're here, you're responsible for cleaning, cooking, serving, and running errands. Understood?" Whatever method Potter had used to keep the pad thai warm had worked well. The noodles were firm and not too sticky, the egg and chicken were hot, and there was a perfect tang of lime. Since Draco believed in giving credit where credit was due, he gestured to his plate and said, "This is very good. I expect you to keep up this standard of service from now on."

Potter didn't seem to have a comeback for that other than a nod. "Fine." They lapsed into silence. Draco didn't feel much need to keep up a conversation. He briefly considered reading his evening _Prophet_, but that would be rude. Reading at the dinner table when company was present was not acceptable, even if said company was only Potter. Besides, he would probably steal the sports page and berate himself more for not catching the Snitch. That might be amusing once. Beyond, it would just be annoying.

From time to time Draco caught Potter looking at him as though he wanted to ask a difficult question, but every time Draco tried to make eye contact Potter found somewhere else to look.

When Draco laid his chopsticks over the edge of his plate, Potter stood and cleared the table.

"You learn fast," said Draco, slightly mocking. Their bit of verbal sparring earlier had been the best moments of the night so far. Perhaps he could goad Potter into another round. He'd rather have that than the silence, in any event. "I only had to tell you to pick up dinner and serve it before you figured out the final step. Maybe there's hope for you."

"It's not so much a matter of learning as it is knowing that you would never take care of your own dishes. Not with me here. If you even know how to take care of them yourself."

"Exactly. You learn fast."

"If you say so, Malfoy," he said nonchalantly. There was the sound of running water, and Potter said, "_Scourgify._"

"What did you just say?" asked Draco, turning in his seat to see Potter standing at the sink.

"I said, 'If you say so, Malfoy.'"

"After that, you twit!"

Potter shrugged. "It was just a cleaning spell." Another flick of his wand and the dishes were dry, stacked neatly in the cabinets. "Oh, that's right," he continued in a sarcastic overtone. "You've never cleaned anything in your life, so you wouldn't know a cleaning spell when you heard one."

"You washed the dishes with magic? I'm surprised. Less than an hour ago you seemed to forget you have magical powers."

"Get off it, Malfoy. There's no point in washing the dishes by hand when a spell gets it done in a fraction of the time."

"If I wanted the dishes done in a fraction of the time, I'd have done them myself," Draco retorted. "Because contrary to your belief, I am excellent with cleaning spells. I am excellent with most spells."

"Fine. Next time, I won't clean anything without your permission."

Getting a rise out of Potter was one thing. Mind games were another, and they were not something that interested Draco after a long day of rain and Quidditch. "How many times am I going to have to remind you why you're here? From now on, there's a new rule: No cleaning using magic."

Against what should have been his better judgment, Potter showed Draco his indignation. "No magic? Are you kidding? Even house-elves get to use magic. I bet you've never cleaned anything without magic in your entire life!"

"What's it to you, Potter? You were raised by Muggles. Cleaning like one is not exactly beneath your station. You'll clean anything in this flat that needs it, and you'll do it without magic, and you'll do it in a Muggle French maid's outfit and a pair of my mother's high heels if I want." Draco finished his wine and held his glass out. "Another, if you please."

The look Potter gave Draco could have frozen the wine in the bottle. He grabbed it and poured, splashing wine over the side of Draco's glass. Spilling only made him more upset. He grabbed a towel, wiped, and threw the towel into the sink with force.

"So. What other completely ridiculous tasks do you have for me to do?" he asked. "Alphabetizing your books? Evening your carpet fibers with a tweezers?"

Draco hesitated. He didn't really have much planned for the evening, despite his acting otherwise in front of Potter. The Wireless was a wasteland on Saturday nights, nothing but repeats of old shows and songs he'd heard a thousand times before. Usually he caught up on work or reading. He stood from the table, and as he did so a muscle spasm gripped his upper back and froze his right shoulder blade in place. "Fuck," he whispered as he sat back down.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, or snapped as much as he could through gritted teeth. "I just… need… a second." He _would_ be fine, shortly, when he could move his arm again. This wasn't the first time this had happened, so he knew what to expect. The pain would hold him immobile for a minute, then it would pass. When it did, he rolled his shoulder backwards, then to the front, wincing at the residual stiffness.

"What is that, your neck? Your back?" Potter sounded hesitant, like he was asking more out of good manners than actual worry. "Do you need some help?"

"That's very kind, but I doubt there's anything you can do to help me."

Shrugging, Potter replied, "Fine. Don't say I didn't offer."

There was a note in Potter's voice, one that clearly said he knew something Draco didn't, which intrigued him. "What, exactly, does your offer entail?"

"Just to relieve some of your pain, if you want. But you don't, so there's no point in discussing it." He stood up straight. "What do you want me to clean next?" he asked, knowing that Draco wasn't ready to move on to that topic.

"We'll discuss whatever I want to discuss! I'm curious to know what, exactly, can you do that a team of trained mediwizards can't?"

"Maybe nothing, but I've learned a few things that really help with that kind of pain," Potter replied, this time sounding genuinely concerned.

"The pain that comes from breaking half the bones in your body and wrecking your back in the process?" Draco sneered. He pulled out his wand and Summoned his evening _Prophet_, intending to read. Potter was insane to even think he could help, and Draco intended to ignore his malarkey. "You've learned a hell of a lot, Potter. When Puddlemere forces you into retirement or trades you to the Cannons so they can draft the next hot thing out of Hogwarts, you should work at St. Mungo's." The headlines weren't very interesting, so he started to flip to the sports section.

"You're not the only one who's broken bones around here, _Malfoy_." There wasn't a note of sarcasm or annoyance from Draco that Potter couldn't match. "Or torn his rotator cuff, or had a Friday practice so hard he couldn't move on Saturday."

No way in hell was Draco going to let Potter think for a second that their injuries were even remotely equal. "Spoken like someone who truly doesn't understand living with chronic pain." He lowered the paper and glared at Potter. "How long were you out of commission with that rotator cuff? A few days? There's more to this than just some pulled muscles. I fell fifty feet, which, as you know, could have easily killed me. This is some serious damage that even the mediwizards couldn't fix entirely. And when it rains or I don't sleep or there's a rumor going around that I'm manipulating Puddlemere's Seeker's move to a new team I'm not-"

Draco stopped. _Damn it_. He was doing it again. Running his mouth off at Potter on subjects he didn't really want to talk about. He had no idea what it was about Potter that made him start talking about all the thoughts he had that no one else wanted to hear but that sometimes he needed so badly to voice.

Except maybe for the fact that Potter, of all people, always listened. Potter, of all people, would know better than anyone how frustrating it was when your office gossip was fodder for the _Prophet_. And he knew the feeling that Draco could never get across to anyone outside the world of pro Quidditch: every moment of pain was worth it when it led to a winning game, and that being grounded after years in flight could leave you hopeless. He almost laughed. For all their years of enmity, Potter might be the person who best understood him.

With this realization, Draco folded his paper and pushed it to the opposite end of the table. "All right. What's this treatment you've got?"

"I can't do it from where you're sitting."

"Is your aim so bad that you have to have me move somewhere so you can hit me with your spell accurately? Would you prefer I stand in a corner?"

Sighing, Potter said, "No." He studied the layout of the chair, the table and the wall. "You can sit with your back to me. And it'll help if you can take your shirt off that shoulder, but if you don't want to, that's fine."

Draco's first instinct was to ready his wand. Though Potter hadn't done anything untrustworthy yet, Draco didn't like the idea of exposing his back to him. "You want me to take my shirt off and turn away from you because…"

"I promise I won't hex you. Look, if I hex you, you can sell the house to someone else." He held out his wand. "No surprises." Then he took on the flat tone of the guard who worked at the Ministry wand-weighing checkpoint. "Holly. Eleven inches. Phoenix feather core. Been in use fourteen years."

Even Draco couldn't resist smiling. "That impression is a little too good." He thought for a moment, stood, and brought himself into Potter's space as he had on the night he'd proposed their arrangement. As Potter backed away, tightening the grip on his wand, Draco pulled the hem of his shirt from his trousers. Then he opened the buttons, without hurry, from top to bottom. Potter wasn't sure whether to turn away in politeness or stand his ground of nonchalance. Finished with his buttons, Draco let his shirt hang open, smoothed the placket, and reached to twist and remove his cufflinks. It was a task he could accomplish more quickly with magic, but he was going to make Potter wait this out. He reached for the thin leather tie in his hair. Untie, unwind, lean back and run his fingers through his hair, let it brush over the back of his neck.

They had both spent plenty of time in locker rooms. Just about everyone who played for Puddlemere had seen Draco in his underwear, even less. Those years of playing Quidditch coupled with his time being prodded by Healers in St. Mungo's had eroded his modesty. He used the screen while changing in front of Miller more to preserve their roles as employer and employee than anything else. Being mostly naked in those professional situations, though, was something much less intimate than undressing in his small kitchen with Harry Potter within easy reach. It was an intimidating closeness Draco relied on. The discomfort engendered by Draco's deliberate movements was clear in Potter's expression. Good. Anything and everything to put Potter in his place.

"Now what?" Draco said as his cufflinks clinked against the glass table. He removed his shirt as casually as he might light a candle or pick up a quill, hanging it over the back of his chair. "If you can't work your spell in here, perhaps I should lie down in the living room?" he asked, moving close enough to Potter that he could smell aloe soap. Draco had about three inches on Potter and he straightened his spine, making the most of the height advantage.

"Er… ah… no. No, that… no." Potter stepped away, surveying the table and chairs. "You're fine where you are. Sit sideways in your chair with your back to me. No, wait. Turn the chair away from the table and sit backward in it."

"And wrinkle my shirt?"

"You're not… Oh. _Wingardium leviosa." _Potter flew the shirt in the direction of Draco's bedroom. "There. Sit. Face away from me and try to keep your back straight." As Draco followed Potter's instructions, Potter continued. "And just so you know," he said, pressing his fingertips into the muscles between Draco's neck and his right shoulder, "this might -"

Draco nearly fell out of the chair from the shock of Potter touching him not with a spell, but with his hands. "Ow! Potter, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"-hurt a little. Sorry."

"I thought you said this would help!" He jerked away from Potter and twisted to face him, grabbing his wand and aiming for Potter. The point where Potter had touched him burned deep in the muscle.

Potter backed off, raising his hands. "Malfoy, stop. I'm not going to do anything bad to you. Listen. The more you fight me, the worse it's going to hurt. This isn't going to leave marks or anything, it's just… Sometimes healing can hurt, but there's a reason for it. You of all people should know that. Sit back down."

Replacing his wand slowly, Draco obeyed. Potter was right. He knew all too well that healing could hurt. He felt Potter step closer and take hold of his shoulders. The warmth from his palms took the edge off Draco's temper. "Let me try this. I promise, it will get better."

"Fine." Draco lowered his head, letting its weight stretch his neck muscles. The mediwizard who supervised his recovery of movement had stressed the importance of relaxation as an antidote to pain. She meant yoga and meditation, and Draco didn't mind the occasional session, but he generally preferred his relaxation in the form of a glass of wine and a murder mystery. Deep breaths would have to do for now.

"I'm going to touch you again. Same place. Just so you know. Okay?"

In that instant Draco almost refused him. He still wasn't over the unwelcome surprise of Potter touching him without explicit permission. Sure, it was a little on the hypocritical side, but this was his flat and he would do the touching. Or allow it. If he felt like it. But he acceded.

For a few minutes, Draco thought that whatever Potter was doing wasn't any better than the pain that brought him down in the first place. The peaks of tension in his shoulders were hard, and Potter's efforts to dissolve them were unforgiving. It took some effort, but he fought his instincts and let Potter work.

"You wouldn't hurt as much here if you sat up straight, you know." Potter tapped the area between Draco's shoulder blades to define "here."

"Oh, thanks. I was really hoping you'd lecture me about my posture."

"It's true." Potter dug into a knot a little harder than Draco thought necessary, and Draco suppressed a whimper. "You probably carried a lot less tension here when you were playing Quidditch, because you were moving around all the time. Now you're sitting bent over a desk most of the day, so you put a lot more pressure on your back and shoulders. Sitting up straight helps. Keeps your spine in alignment."

"I appreciate your concern, but I am really not in the mood for any sort of anatomy lesson."

"Sorry. Just…trying to help."

Potter's touch hurt, but Draco had to admit it did help. Each working of a pressure point felt like Potter was releasing Draco's stress from the inside out. His shoulders felt pleasantly warm and were definitely looser. His neck felt longer, and he could breathe a little easier. Despite the pain, this was actually working.

"Where did you learn to do this?" He turned his head to view Potter, who was working on a spot at the edge of Draco's left shoulder blade, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"In Sweden, on an exhibition tour. Face forward or you're going to undo everything I just did to your neck. One of their team mediwitches taught us all how to do basic healing without wands. Sometimes we didn't even use magic. Some of it doesn't seem too efficient, but other things, like what I'm doing here, are pretty useful."

"Are they?" Draco couldn't help but be intrigued. For all his pain and the damage he'd sustained in the fall, he'd never had anyone touch him to heal him unless they had a wand as well. By now he trusted Potter not to hurt him, but beyond that he was having trouble sorting his emotions. It was humiliating to have had a pain spasm right in front of Potter. He would have been prepared for Potter to taunt him over it, but the response of help and kindness unsettled him. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he knew this: He wanted more of Potter's strange wandless healing magic.

"This… It works for them?" Draco asked.

"Yeah. They take saunas, too. Those are great."

"Never had one."

"Mmm, they're amazing. Best on a cold day. You sit in a little wooden room that's really hot and mostly dark and then you go take a cold shower. Very cleansing." He pressed into a point at the edge of Draco's left shoulder blade a little harder than Draco thought was really necessary.

Grunting, Draco replied, "Why would I want to do any of that? Sweating when you're not working out, cold shower, too dark to read, what's there to like?"

Potter said with a gentle laugh, "All I'm saying is that you shouldn't write it off until you try it. Sometimes there's a lot to be said for being exhausted and alone in a hot room with nothing but a towel and your thoughts." To punctuate his statement, he made one final push into Draco's back at a point just left of center.

"Ouch!" Draco felt a burst that radiated and contracted the other muscles in his back. "What, do you think I'm going to change my mind about that horrible sauna thing if you torture me enough? I've survived enough torture without the promise of a steam bath and I'm not going to cave that easily."

"Sorry. You must have a trigger point there. That's a really tight knot, like a bundle of nerves that all meet in one place. Sometimes they… They make you jump, I guess, is the best way to put it. I'll be careful now that I know it's there."

"Oh." This technique of Potter's, or maybe it was the wine, had loosened Draco's lips as well as his shoulder. He was going to have to be more careful about what he said if Potter's contract was going to run more than one or two nights.

"Is that any better?" Potter asked after another few minutes, resting his hands just on top of Draco's shoulder blades.

"It…" Though it couldn't actually be true, Draco felt like his blood was flowing better to his neck and shoulders. Something else felt released in him, too. His mind was clearer and the anxieties of his workweek were hard to recall, though Draco knew they had been plentiful. "Yes. Why… I mean, how did you do that?" And when could Potter come back and do it again?

"I told you. Swedish mediwitches. If you get the chance you should go, maybe on holiday. Sweden, especially the southern half, is beautiful. But go in the summer. It's really, really cold in February. And dark." Potter resumed his ministrations, sliding his hands up Draco's neck and into his hair, making little circles on Draco's scalp with his fingertips.

It amazed Draco that so small a move could have such a profound effect on his well-being. He let the thoughts of the wreck of tangles Potter was surely leaving in his hair slip away on a wave of sheer happiness. "Yes, well, first… I have to talk them out of… sending me to the States. Or maybe I could tell them… they owe me a trip to Sweden after visiting the States."

"I thought you dealt exclusively with Britain and Ireland." He smoothed the flyaways from Draco's hair over his temples, then did something with his thumbs at the base of Draco's skull that made him shiver.

"Proving once again how very little you know about what I do all day. Why don't you ask your teammate from Athens how he came to play for Puddlemere? They can't all come out of Hogwarts."

"All right. So tell me about your job."

"You actually care?"

"Yeah. Your job sounds interesting. I mean, every time I see you you're so focused on it, and even though we've…had our differences," he said, kneading along Draco's shoulder a little more gently, "I _do _respect you, Malfoy. So do a lot of other people. You work hard and you do what a good manager should do: you look out for the players' interests ahead of what the scouts and coaches want." He palpated down the length of Draco's arms, looking for places where hours of writing left him with knotted muscles. "Don't think your letter to Coach Guilford, the one where you told him he should have pulled Valerian out at his first sign of relapse, went unnoticed."

Draco weakened in the presence of such flattery, but he couldn't let Potter see how much those words meant to him. "Plan to replace me when Puddlemere dumps you for Harris, do you?"

If the dig at Potter's career trajectory fazed him, he didn't let it show. "Maybe. I mean, I know no one goes on forever playing pro Quidditch; I'm always open to possibilities."

"Potter, I don't feel like talking about work right now. I've spent all week working, and today working, and I'll spend the next month working nonstop." He drained a third of his wine. "Talk to me about something else."

The sound of rain on Draco's windows settled around the table. In the quiet, Draco planned tomorrow: a late rising after a night of sleep assisted by potions, finish the novel he'd been reading, send his laundry out. Although maybe he wouldn't need a strong potion tonight, thanks to whatever this Swedish magic was.

Finished with Draco's arms, Potter sat down, pulling a chair close enough so he could take Draco's right hand. Draco opened his mouth for a smart remark about Potter's need to hold hands, but an eyeroll from Potter stopped him. He held Draco's wrist steady and gently bent each of his fingers back. Draco hadn't realized how tight the muscles in his palms were until Potter stretched them.

As Potter took Draco's hand in his own, interlacing their fingers, he caught Draco's gaze and said, "You survived torture." It was so matter of fact, his voice would have been no different had he said, "You have blond hair," or, "It's raining outside."

Suspicion made Draco contract his fingers around Potter's. "Is that a threat?"

"What?" Potter looked surprised. "No, it's… You said something earlier about having been tortured. And at Palta you seemed to have some pretty strong opinions about the war."

"Oh. I suppose I did say that." Draco felt stupid, and not just because he'd forgotten he'd said all that to Potter. He loosened his grip. "Why did you bring it up?"

Potter stopped his stretching efforts but didn't release Draco's hand. "Because you've mentioned it twice. Usually when someone keeps bringing up a topic it means he wants to talk about it. Did you want to talk about it?"

The only people who had ever asked Draco about what he'd gone through during the war were Aurors and members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and they'd been more concerned with how many names he would spill than his mental health. Years ago, right around the time he'd decided to try out for professional Quidditch, Draco told himself that no good would ever come of talking about the war to anyone, for any reason. He'd buried his experiences until that dinner at Palta, when Potter's naiveté and earnestness dug them up.

Had it been anyone except Potter, Draco would have been able to brush off the question. The same shrewd, calculating part of him he brought to work each day wanted to respond with a resounding "Absolutely not." To accept Potter's invitation would be to open the door to a weak, wounded part of him that he swore no one would ever see. Exposing that part could never lead to anything good. But his conscience, his gut, and to Draco's disappointment, the part of himself he knew he'd never be able to escape if he said anything different, said inside, quietly and certainly, "Yes. Yes, I do."

Draco knew he couldn't tell the whole story right now, but he also didn't think he could let Potter go in that moment any more than he could spontaneously remove his own arm.

"I was…" He pulled the word from the depths of wine and serotonin. "Thirsty," he whispered to their hands. His focus softened as he drew his concentration inward, so he could no longer tell where his hand ended and Potter's began. "One of many ironies. The cell was so damp, but my throat was always so dry. It was…effective."

"Effective how?"

"Because… When you're in a cell all day with nothing to think about except what a bunch of Death Eaters are going to do to you next, every physical shortcoming you have seems like it takes up your entire world. They knew how weak I was because of the dehydration. All I could think about was how much I hurt, and how thirsty I was and Potter…" Draco looked up and tightened his grip on Potter's hand. "You have no idea what it means to be thirsty. I'm not talking about needing your standard post-workout replenishment potion. I'm talking your lips crack and your tongue is fuzzy and your joints ache and you feel like your blood is turning to sludge. They knew exactly how much water to give me to keep me alive, but I got nothing more."

_I dare you to look away_, thought Draco. _Go ahead, show me that you can't deal with this. Drop my hand and get up and leave. _

But Potter gave Draco's hand the tiniest of squeezes and said, "I'm sorry."

That was it? Didn't Potter know the kind of strength it took for Draco just to speak those few sentences? "Sure you are. Because your side was right, of course. Everything you did was calculated to save as many lives as possible, especially the lives of Death Eaters."

Potter gave an exasperated sigh. Then he regrouped and asked calmly, "Are we really going to have this argument again?"

No, they weren't. Draco had learned his lesson at Palta, that Potter had been completely brainwashed by the Order into believing that everything he'd done, everything he'd fought for, was all that was good and true and right. What an idiot. And Draco was an idiot for believing that Potter could even come close to understanding the hell he'd been through. He'd let himself get too carried away in this moment, by Potter's gesture of kindness. There were reasons he'd kept almost everything about his imprisonment by the Death Eaters a secret, and they were good ones. He was not going to crack in front of Harry Potter.

He pulled his hand away. "No. Talk to me about something else."

Potter seemed taken aback for a moment. "I'm… sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Well, you did," said Draco sharply, downing what was left of his wine.

Looking cowed, Potter glanced beyond Draco, into the living room. "All right…erm… Who's James Patterson? You seem to have a lot of his books."

Draco took his own turn to sigh in exasperation. "You know what?" he said as he reached across the table for his _Prophet_. "Never mind. Just go home. Go home and cry over losing the Snitch to Harris, like you've wanted to do since you got here."

There was a moment's hesitation. Then, Potter got up from the table. He refilled Draco's wineglass, but stood holding the bottle in one hand.

"I really am sorry that you went through that," he said just before sealing the bottle. "And if there's ever more that you want to say, I mean, I know I can't change anything but—"

"How nice of you to reassure me of your ineffectiveness."

Something in Potter deflated. He sighed and set the wine on the table. "Good night, Malfoy. I'll… I'll see you soon." Potter retrieved his cloak from the front closet and Disapparated.

"Coward," Draco admonished as he drank his wine in two gulps.

Then he went to his medicine cabinet for a sleeping potion. He had changed his mind. He was going to need a strong one after all.


End file.
